


Scratches

by muttthecowcat22



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Canon-Typical Violence, Light Angst, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-22 03:42:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22875742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muttthecowcat22/pseuds/muttthecowcat22
Summary: Connor has finally settled into his new position in vampire related crimes when his latest case goes wrong. Will he survive unscathed or will he be forced to give up the life with Hank he's been too afraid to ask for?
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 8
Kudos: 46





	Scratches

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alphira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alphira/gifts).



> Hi everyone! I'm back with this severely delayed halloween exchange fic for Alphira! Hope you enjoy!

Connor knew he was missing something.

Nothing lined up about the case, the motive he thought he had, the lack of blood on the floor. He hadn’t been so stumped since he’d moved to vampire-related crimes a year ago—without Hank. But that had been fine. He didn’t need Hank to solve all his cases.

The facts were this:

1) There weren’t three bodies. And there were always three bodies. A vampire needed three for each feeding.

2) There wasn’t any blood. None. And there was always blood if the vampire had been scared off before it could finish.

3) Connor could have prevented the entire incident.

That had been the plan. Connor had been tracking the victims of a particular vampire (or vampires) for months. He’d almost been able to predict the pattern. The victims almost always had some kind of terminal illness or circumstance in their lives—they knew they were going to die. Connor suspected the vampires might have some sort of conscience, but not enough of one to not strip the victims of the last few months of their lives. 

He’d thought the next attack might just be the one he could intercept.

Until two local university students had created a social media buzz by planning to lure a vampire to their apartment. Connor had picked up on the plan early, knew he could prevent this one for sure. He tried to contact the students, Markus and Simon, to no avail. Luring a vampire to any location was unfortunately not against the law, so Conner had planned to be on standby near the apartment the night the students had planned for with Tina and Hank on call as his backup if he needed it.

But on that night, he’d been too late, arriving to find only two bodies and no blood.

It made no sense.

Connor’s hands shook as he typed up the report on the scene. He reached for his coffee, the warmth calming for the moment, then pulled his old half dollar out of his pocket. The surface of the coin was nearly smooth from where he had rubbed it over the years.

Hank’s desk across the room remained empty. It was his day off after a late night. Connor missed the way Hank would have reached over and rubbed his shoulder. He missed the two years of riding home with Hank to watch the game, sitting on the couch with just enough space between them, too afraid of damaging what they had to reach across the gap. Hank had been Connor’s family—the only family he had left.

Then, Connor had taken the promotion . . . and he didn’t have excuses to see Hank anymore.

Tina walked by just as Connor looked out the window toward the bright noon sun. He startled when she tapped on his desk. “Feeling okay there, Con?”

Connor just rolled his eyes, trying to blow it off. He knew he looked like shit, felt like it too. He’d pulled late nights before for more gruesome crimes, but this one had gotten to him.

He didn’t know if it was because the victims had been so young or so hopeful or that he could have protected them, but he felt shaken. He didn’t even have an appetite, hadn’t eaten anything except a couple cups of coffee, and for some reason, there was a rancid smell in the precinct that morning that no one else seemed to mind. Connor had felt nauseous since he’d walked in.

Tina didn’t push anymore, for which Connor was grateful. She simply threw him a sad look and moved on.

Fowler didn’t assign Connor any new cases that day, and Connor didn’t question it. He didn’t think he had the energy to cover another case anyway. The paperwork dragged on. At least the students hadn’t had any families, which he felt bad for thinking, but it spared him from having to break the news to them.

Connor moved on to his other cases from the week that he hadn’t finished because he’d set everything else aside before.

And when he was finally finished, he stood from his desk, threw on his coat . . . and walked back to the students’ apartment. He couldn’t let it go.

It was located just on the edge of campus in one of those cramped but “recently renovated” student apartment complexes. Despite the number of people Connor knew lived there, the area was oddly deserted. Perhaps the other residents had been scared off by the story and the police tape.

Connor climbed the exterior stairs, his shoes clacking loudly on the metal framework. He stepped under the tape easily to reach the door.

But when he opened the door, the students . . . they weren’t dead. They stood before him, faces cast in shadow. And the vampire was there too around the corner.

And then they were gone, and Connor was alone and very, very cold.

He jolted awake, Captain Fowler shaking his shoulder and the warm evening sun streaming in through the windows and onto his back where he’d fallen asleep against his desk. Connor felt groggy momentarily before a wave of nausea hit him in full force.

He barely noticed the captain shaking him again, the booming “Go home, Connor,” just background noise. His legs shook when he stood, but he gripped the side of his desk to steady himself and managed to maintain a normal enough gait to walk out the door.

Despite the sun, the wind bit outside with a bitter cold. Conner sunk to the edge of the sidewalk and rested his head in his hands, trying to breathe through the worst of the nausea and ignore the cold. The door of the DPD slid open behind him with a mechanical whir.

“Connor!” It was Tina. “Come on. Get your ass up off the road!” Her obvious concern bled through her normal demeanor, but that smell followed her. Where before it had been overpoweringly rotten with a metallic twinge, it had changed, taking on a sweet quality, overpowering still, but not entirely unpleasant. Connor turned his head away all the same. “Connor?”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re obviously not. I’m calling a cab to take you home.” And that was honestly fine with Connor, except that he felt he shouldn’t go home at all.

And on top of that, the smell was changing again, turning less harsh, more pleasant. Connor thought he was almost regaining his appetite. He took in a deep breath, and it was as if he could taste it, rich and sweet. It didn’t make him feel better though—worse instead, like he was weak and desperately hungry.

“Hey, Tina, Jeff called. Let me take him,” said another voice from behind.

Hank’s voice.

Connor managed to lift his head enough to see the lieutenant waving Tina back inside the station. It was good to see Hank, probably the best thing that had happened to Connor all day. Worry etched Hank’s face, the wind blowing, tangling his hair.

A warm hand pressed over Connor’s shoulder. “Ok, Connor, I’m taking you to my house. That good with you?”

That was more than good with him. He’d been hoping to go back to Hank’s home for months. He just wished it was under better circumstances, and he really was fine. He didn’t need help for every small thing. “Yeah,” he managed, “but I’m really fine to go home.”

“No the hell you’re not. And Sumo’s waiting on you. Better not disappoint him.” Hank knelt down to eye level, gripping both of Connor’s shoulders.

Hank didn’t just do _that_. Get that close to Connor, look him directly in the eyes. Normally, Hank shied away from contact—from any form of closeness at all. So it was, perhaps, the closest Connor had ever been to him since the hug from their first case together.

One of his hands slid down Connor’s shoulder to wrap around his arm, soothing the wrinkles out of his shirt, large and warm. Connor leaned into the contact, the world dimming to just that point. It made it more bearable. “Okay,” he said, voice rough.

Hank helped Connor stand and supported his weight as they shuffled through the snow to Hank’s car by the curb. Connor felt much weaker than even ten minutes before, and feverish. Between balancing and focusing on not losing his last 3 cups of coffee, he didn’t have much mind to pay attention to just how close Hank was to him.

He had worked up a sweat by the time he climbed into the passenger’s seat. At least the smell died down once Hank shut the door. The car didn’t smell like much of anything really, and wasn’t that a relief.

Hank started up the car and said something else that Connor didn’t really pay attention to. Instead, he settled into his seat and listened to the low cadence of Hank’s voice without actually listening to him. It was an otherwise quiet drive with less noise, fewer smells, and the wind against the windows.

Hank nudged him awake once they reached the house and supported him as he walked inside. 

He hadn’t been inside Hank’s house in months, not having a reason to go back once they weren’t working together anymore. It was as warm as he remembered it, if a little disheveled, only two pizza boxes in the kitchen, a cup or two left out on the table. Sumo was there asleep on the couch, blinking sleepy eyes when they stepped through the door.

Sumo greeted Connor with a few boofs as Hank helped him shift onto the couch and pulled an old, knit blanket over him. The light in the kitchen glowed warm as Hank rummaged through the cabinets and the fridge. And it was nice, Connor realized, comfortable in a way he hadn’t felt in months, like he just slid back into Hank’s home and presence. Like there was someone around who actually gave a fuck about him again. He couldn’t remember anymore why he hadn’t just called Hank months before and told him. Something about being afraid that Hank didn’t feel the same or that he’d forgotten how to do things on his own. It was so stupid. And it was nice, and Sumo was warm on his feet, and Hank’s couch was soft.

“Connor? How are you doing?” Hank was back, taking up his entire field of vision, worry creasing his face. He handed Connor a warm mug—milk, not coffee.

Connor tried to lift his head, but quickly returned it to the pillow when another wave of dizziness and nausea hit him. “I’m about the same. . .” He paused when Hank swept a hand through his hair, pulling a few stray curls off his forehead. Hank’s fingers were warm from the mug. “I think I just need to lie here for a while.”

“Ok.” Hank continued to play with one of Connor’s curls for a few minutes, seemingly distracted. It felt good, soothing while it lasted. Connor had almost drifted to sleep again when he heard Hank’s voice. “I’ll fix you a bath in a few hours if you want one. You never went home did you? Just worked through the night? You look like shit.”

“Yeah. Feel like it too.”

Connor felt Hank withdraw his hand and shuffle across the room to the recliner closer to the TV. “Are you still warm?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Connor cradled the mug in his hands, taking a sip. He felt the heat from the milk move all the way down his chest. “Thanks.”

Hank settled in the recliner, his coat abandoned by the door and his patterned shirt clashing badly with the back of the chair. “Get some rest then,” he said.

And Connor did. He finished his mug and sank further into the couch, finally warm. Something still didn’t feel quite right, like whatever had been lurking at the edges of his consciousness was merely held off by Hank and Sumo’s presence. That Connor’d be very cold if he wasn’t in that exact spot, if he’d gone home that night alone instead.

-

The sound of running water woke Connor. It was distant from down the hall beyond where Sumo had settled over his feet.

He did feel considerably better. Everything felt warmer, a little less sharp. The absence of any strong smells was a continued balm.

Connor sat up slowly when the water shut off. He felt a little dizzy but not nauseous anymore and was able to steady himself on the armrest of the couch. Sumo barely stirred when he shifted his feet to the floor.

“Did I wake you up?” Hank stepped into the room from the hallway, a small grin on his face.

Connor considered his answer for a moment while he got a better grasp on his balance. “Maybe a little.” He found himself well enough to smile when he heard Hank’s fond sigh from behind.

Hank rounded the couch and squatted in front of him, so close again. Connor wondered where the boundaries they had maintained for three years, the lines he’d been too afraid to cross had gone. “Feeling a little better?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“The water’s ready if you’re feeling well enough to make it down the hall. Didn’t think you could stand long enough for a shower.” Hank rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, glancing towards Sumo then back again.

And that made Connor smile. Hank was embarrassed—and maybe Connor was too. He’d only ever stayed for dinner or to watch the game at Hank’s house. He’d never spent the night, never cooked, or changed clothes or made himself at home. And so it was special, he decided, and new.

Connor stood on mostly steady legs, Hank hovering nearby as he walked down the hall. When the bathroom door clicked shut behind him, a steaming bath was waiting for him . . . and a fresh change of clothes. Hank’s clothes. Connor could feel his blush, hot and burning as he inspected the worn shirt and shorts, which would be much too big on him. Connor wasn’t complaining though, not at all.

There were small flecks of blood on his own clothes, and a spot or two on his left arm and in his hair left over from the crime scene, darkened and crusted to a muddy brown. The yellowed light in Hank’s bathroom accentuated the dark circles under his eyes. He was distracted for a moment by the yellow and pink sticky notes framing the mirror. They were hopeful but hinted at something darker that Connor’d never noticed before. He’d never even noticed the sticky notes before. He wondered if they were a recent habit of Hank’s or if he’d always taken them down when Connor visited.

As Connor undressed, he found more and more bruises on his arms and his legs. He must have hit the door and a couple corners harder than he thought when he had entered the apartment the day before. They were dark, purpling, and sore.

Sinking into the bath felt amazing. The water was hot, not just warm, the steam relaxing his muscles. He leaned his head back against the tiled wall and barely prevented himself from falling asleep again. The water had cooled to a dull warmth by the time he decided to get out.

The mirror caught his reflection as he did so, his body peppered with dark bruises and a long cut on the underside of his arm that he hadn’t noticed before.

He couldn’t remember being cut—and surely he would with such a long one. And it was deep in some places too.

He thought back to the flecks of blood on his clothes — he’d thought it’d been the victims’, but it must have been his own.

And there hadn’t been any blood at the crime scene.

It didn’t make any sense.

Unless all the blood had been contained to his own body—to his arm and anywhere he’d touched. He could see the dark stain and rip on the arm of his shirt now that it was sitting on the counter.

He carefully looked over the rest of his skin, behind his knees and shoulders, his face, the top of his head, and he found only bruises, no more cuts. The water had washed away all the flecks of blood.

It wasn’t until he turned to grab Hank’s clothes that he noticed something on his neck. He leaned over the counter, angling his head up, and there below his jaw were two dark pinpricks spaced vertically an inch or so apart.

Connor knew objectively what they meant. But he couldn’t register it. He stood frozen in front of Hank’s mirror with the hopeful sticky notes he’d been happy to see just a few minutes before while fear slowly gripped him. When he finally managed to move, his heart was pounding in his chest, his vision blurry around the edges with panic.

He threw on Hank’s clothes and ran into the hallway to . . . somewhere. He didn’t even know where he could go, what to do. He had precautions against this. Neck guards anytime he was on the job. A neutralizing agent to be immediately injected. But it was too late for all of that. He’d just fucking slept on a couch for hours then taken a bath! All wasting precious time.

He rounded the corner from the hallway . . . and slammed into Hank, who stumbled backwards but managed to catch Connor by the shoulders.

And Connor could barely look at him. Because he’d wanted so badly, and he’d waited and waited, and he couldn’t have any of it anymore. And he couldn’t do a single thing about it. 

“H-Hank,” he said, his shoulders shaking under Hank’s hands. “I—”

“Ok, sweetheart, let’s sit down first. We need to keep you warm.”

And so they did sit down at Hank’s kitchen table. Hank pulled the blanket off the couch and draped it over Connor where he had deposited him in one of the wooden chairs. Then he sat down across from Connor and waited on him to speak.

And Connor wanted to talk. He wanted to tell Hank everything. But . . . he couldn’t. He twisted his hands in his lap around the blanket. He just couldn’t. Instead he tilted his jaw up and pointed to the bite for Hank to see.

“I know, Connor. I already knew.” He reached across the table for Connor’s hand and squeezed it. “It’s going to be okay.”

“But wh—this can’t happen! I can’t fucking do this!” Connor’s speech was pressed, his breathing fast. “They never bite unless they want to convert more people. And why? Why would they do this to me? I wanted—I need to tell—”

Hank grabbed Connor’s other hand, held them both steady, and Connor calmed some, able to focus on the warmth of their shared contact.

“To keep you alive.” Hank’s voice was low and serious.

“Wha—”

“You had lost too much blood, sweetheart. And the venom is as much of a help as a hurt. You could still be okay if we can keep you warm.” Hank squeezed Connor’s hands again.

“Hank? I don’t?”

“I’m sorry.” Hank looked directly into Connor’s eyes again. So close, so warm. “I had to do something. I couldn’t just stand there and watch you die.”

And the kitchen light above them hit Hank at just the right angle to bring out the red tinge in his eyes and the points of his teeth.

**Author's Note:**

> duh dUh DUH!
> 
> Please let me know what you think with kudos or comments! Thank you for reading <3


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